


Spark

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Two rocks marking the life of Jackie.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Grief/Mourning.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Jackie Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Spark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheFibreWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/gifts).



> yep, another death-fic ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

There’s a rock at the base of the couch. An artifact from when two people sat together, and he was wary of squeezing into the middle. When he thought he might need a hug, but couldn’t ask for it and panicked at the affection if it wasn’t requested. He’d rest on the floor, just close enough for fingers to drop to his shoulders, his neck in a silent call for contact. When he wanted space, he’d skitter to the chair.

There’s a rock on the couch too. A little different sized, more weathered at the edges from tumbling, feathered with cracks the rain gets in. They spread more with each freeze and thaw, but still hold together. Fingers drift off the couch, resting on a shoulder.

As a pair, the rocks knock against steel to make fire. Sometimes chips or crystals pop off when they bump each other instead of what they’re facing. Quartz and obsidian light trails to murderers, assailants, other criminals. Illuminate paths to forgiveness too: quartz for not saving enough victims from a doctor, obsidian for not protecting his wife, his kid.

When the fire goes out, they sit. One on a couch worn at the bias piping on the corners, yet not far enough it needs to be replaced. The other on the floor in a seat made for the perfect distance. No one ever sits in the empty space on the opposite end. Nor can they ever create enough fire to replace her warmth.

They fit into their formation on a Monday. A rare day off for either of them, but it’s planned years in advance. Her birthday, because that’s what’s worth celebrating, Gil decides. Not the day she left them. Not the day no one could do enough. Not the day he failed her.

They’re the rocks at the foundation, not the celebration. She’s the center of lively preparation of dinner in the kitchen, trying to corral them into chopping corn off the cob instead of playing with candles and matches. She’s tailoring and patches, putting them back together with smiles and hugs when they’re a little worse for wear. She’s bedtime stories everyone is too old for, but they need retelling in a voice that doesn’t invoke terror. She’s in _everything_.

But they’re left without her energy, sipping more whiskey than they should, toasting wife, mother, _Jackie_.

They miss her voice when she’s not there to critique how awful they make her ice cream. Not cold enough, not enough rock salt, more soup than churned. They still eat it.

A brush of lilac is absent from the table linens, the sheets, the corner of the couch. They long for the sweet curl of fragrance to balance their earthy existence. Can almost smell it.

Fingers have disappeared from one’s ankle, another set gone from the other’s shoulder. Soft pads turn to rough edges, hidden under socks and sweaters. If they keep tossing enough, they’ll smooth out.

The extra sprinkle of love is removed from the cooking. None of the herbs are labeled, and they can’t find the right combination to replicate it. They eat lunch as an obligation to get through rather than a taste to be savored.

If they close their eyes, she’s still there. Flipping through pages in scrapbooks and recipe books, rallying the community through their kitchen, squeezing them like no one else.

Yet open, they’re two rocks rolling in the stream, unsure where they’ll find a footing. Leaving bits and pieces behind as they smack along the way.

“She’d tell us to put away the tears,” Malcolm speaks to the coffee table at eye level.

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” Gil responds to the back of Malcolm’s head.

“No.”

A swallow, and whiskey fills more of the crevices. “Is it bad I still wear it?”

Malcolm doesn’t need to ask what. “No.”

Gil twists the gold on his finger. “I just wonder what she’d think.”

“That there’s a great shop off seventh if you’d like to wear it on a chain, or it can stay right there on your finger as long as you need.” The same conversation they have every year. Gil never lets Malcolm buy the chain, Malcolm never lets Gil stress over the remaining emblem.

“I think I might just take it off,” Gil admits with a hint of weariness and fear of the outcome.

“That’s okay too.”

Silence falls between them, a trickle of memories in the background.

Quartz glimmers, “Remember when she cut my hair?”

“I seem to recall a racket from your mother,” obsidian flickers. “Never mind all the other mishaps I pulled you out of.”

“Me, mishap? I think you’re mistaken,” he offers a rebuttal.

The hand at his shoulder reaches around to hug him, Gil sliding half off the couch, the other hand rubbing knuckles into his hair. Malcolm tugs that arm and Gil ends up on the floor behind him, chuckling as he ceases the minor attack and removes his hands.

“What am I, ten?” Malcolm teases.

“Couldn’t do that then,” Gil reminds.

“Making up for lost time, then?” Malcolm posits instead.

“Eh. Making best use of the time we have.” He sounds wistful, sad.

“I think we’ve been drinking too much,” Malcolm admits, his own smile flipping between too much grin and drooping frown as they stumble headlong through the day’s many emotions.

“Seems like a good time to make dinner.” Gil pats his shoulder.

“I’ll take stove duty if you cut the corn off the cob,” Malcolm suggests.

“At least we husked it earlier.” They’d be covered in silk if they had to do it now. Probably wouldn’t get to eating the corn.

“C’mon.”

Malcolm stands and extends a hand to pull Gil up with him. Gil rests his ring on the windowsill and washes his hands. Preps an onion and some peppers. Pounds out chicken breast until it’s thin and lightly breads it. Turns it over to Malcolm to handle frying in tandem with the corn boiling next to it.

Quartz and obsidian, lighting a fire in the kitchen.

She’s the celebration. Sparking _everything_.

The food isn’t hers, but it’s good enough that they can pretend she had a hand in the cooking. Can retire to bed knowing they’d marked the life of the woman who loved them.

The sheets smell of lilac. Whispers of adventures enter their dreams.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
